Now, I freely admit I'm in love with horsepower, but on four wheels rather than four legs. I did try the equine variety and took lessons, but when it became clear even after some uncomfortable practice that the horse was always going up when I was coming down and vice versa, I hung up my jodhpurs for good. Perhaps the lack of brakes had something to do with it as well.

But living within a stone's throw of a racing stables and cheek by jowl with an equestrian centre and chase, one cannot help but be surrounded by Shetland to Shire of every size and hue and the onlooker to an often amusing equitation game.

First out of the stalls are the racers. The local stables are clearly large and they ride out strings for much of the day, starting at crack o' sparrows. Their route to the chase involves half a mile or so on country roads. I became accustomed to meeting them on my early commute, a string of five or six beautiful creatures in the pink of condition.

Knowing they might be coming my way, I always kept a weather eye open and slowed to a crawl as I passed. Any horse, but especially these thoroughbreds, is easily spooked by headlights in the dark. Slowing was circumspection for the horse and equally, to forestall maceration of body panels by flying steel-tipped hooves.

The most danger came not from horse but hound, the tail-gunner terrier which invariably rode shotgun. Apparently devoid of traffic sense, it attempted on numerous occasions to commit hari-kari under my front wheels.

My sole gripe with the jockeys was their insouciant attitude to road safety. True they often sported reflective vests, but seemed unaware that perched atop a lofty steed, they were above headlamp beams. Dark horses against dark hedges are pretty difficult to spot and my prayers for nose and fetlock reflectors alas remained unanswered.

Far superior entertainment is on offer from those who ride as a hobby, be it a Sunday canter or competing in one of the many horsey happenings that take place winter or summer, rain or shine.

Our lane is part of the standard cross-country route, so driving out for the shopping invariably brings you up behind several pairs of shapely withers. Some of the horses are good-looking, too. It can be a little fraught on a foggy November day as neither horse nor rider carry lights.

The gymkhanas and showjumping would be Thelwellian nirvana for the late and much lamented cartoonist. Times without number, we have passed the arena to see the plump derriere, flying pigtails and steed not rider in control so accurately depicted in his drawings.

My neighbour's bank account bears mute testimony to the ravages inflicted by owning not one but two horses for his children.

Buying the beast is just the tip of a massive cash iceberg. Shoes at £80-a-pop each month, harness and tack, blankets, hoof and fetlock protectors, not to mention livery, feed, vets bills and a car that reeks of the stables. The list is never-ending. All rewarded by that sublime pleasure of mucking out on a bonechilling winter's morning when your kids are mysteriously at sleepovers miles away from the stables.

With events up and down the country, some kind of horse transport is de rigueur. At the bottom end -- if you will pardon the pun -- is the trailer horsebox, usually with room for two horses. I am reliably informed that a fair-sized nag weighs in at 1,000lb or more, so we're talking over a ton of cargo, plus the not inconsiderable bulk of the trailer itself.

The trick is to have a towing vehicle that is all but incapable of pulling this mass.

The result is a combination that does not so much accelerate as merely gathers momentum.

With practice, you can create a very fine mobile chicane. Experts assiduously ignore their mirrors, but gleefully award themselves extra points for a particularly long tailback.

The more affluent have horseboxes. These range from the cheap and cheerful to massive coachbuilt devices with built-in caravan, every conceivable luxury and costing more than many a family home.

Expensive boxes do seem to be fitted with engines to match the weight and make reasonable progress, but without exception, the older models don't. They are even slower (if that's possible) than the slowest 4WD and trailer, grinding their way laboriously up hills in a pall of smoke from worn diesel injectors. This makes the occupants of following vehicles deliriously happy. Perhaps it's the carbon monoxide.

Girth is a serious problem. I'm talking about the horsebox. Riding is especially popular with ladies, many of whom drive themselves, most quite skilfully. But there is a cadre of those who are patently terrified of their lorries.

Time and again, they drive towards you down a narrow country lane at least a foot from the verge; the whites of their staring eyes and facial expressions frozen into a grim rictus are clearly beseeching some unseen deity to reduce the box's width before they remodel your car's offside flank.

Technology has inevitably caught up. More and more, riders have the reins in one hand and their Nokia in the other. Are we to see a law against using a hand-held mobile when riding and this Christmas's must-have of a hands-free kit for a horse?

Before I am soundly horsewhipped by the country's equestrians, let me say I wish you every joy with your hobby or profession and having watched Only Fools on Horses, I acknowledge the high levels of skill and the aeons of practice taken to attain them.

All I ask in return is that if I can drive to accommodate horses and riders, perhaps you could return the compliment.